Dialogue Lab One: Dialect versus Diction

Dialogue Lab One: Dialect versus Diction

In early October, my father experienced a medical emergency that sent me to Upstate New York. During his recovery, I spent three weeks in my childhood hometown. During hospital visits and errands, I listened to the conversations around me—not just what was said, but the words each person used to convey their messages.

Dialogue is the lifeblood of any scene. When executed effectively, it catapults the reader into the heart of a story. The very best dialogue feels authentic and flows seamlessly from line to line. But don’t be fooled. Effective dialogue requires keen observation, advanced planning, and lots and lots of practice.

 Let’s start with two scenes.

Scene One

The pizza was cold when it arrived. Frank bit his slice then dropped it onto the table. “Man, those motherfuckers must’ve given us a bad batch.”

“A bad batch?” Gene raised an eyebrow in Frank’s direction.

“Yeah, a bad batch. You gotta watch out for dranos in a place like this—you know, people with nothing left to lose.”

Gene nodded as he pulled out a pack of Camels. Before he could retrieve a cigarette for himself, Frank expectantly held out his hand. Gene cleared his throat then handed him the pack. “Yeah, I know what you mean about dranos. Those fuckers will drain you dry.”

 Scene Two

A wall of heat blasted us as we entered the house. The thermostat hovered somewhere around eighty, even though it was only thirty-two degrees outside. After a few quick hugs, Grandma ushered us to the back bedroom. “I saved the medium-grit sheets for you’ins,” she said. “They’re the warmest ones.”

Eying the window I planned to open when we laid down for bed, I smiled and said, “They’ll do just fine.”

Even without physical descriptions, there’s no confusing Frank and Gene for Grandma. Two aspects of the writing differentiate these characters: dialect and diction.

You can identify the very best characters with only a few lines of dialogue. Often, their diction reads like a fingerprint.

According to Merriam Webster, diction is a “choice of words especially with regard to correctness, clearness, or effectiveness.”

When writing dialogue, correctness means choosing the right words for your characters.

 To develop a character’s diction, consider the following: 

  • Slang: Slang is time- and region-dependent. For example, something might be groovy, rad, or dank depending on when you grew up. Someone might make you wicked nervous or hella nervous depending on whether you’re from Boston or California.
  •  Phraseology: One character might use davenport to describe a piece of living room furniture. Another might say sofa. A third might say couch. Each choice reveals another aspect of who your character is and how they view the world.
  • Rhythm: A nervous character might speak quickly or run several sentences together while a depressed character might speak slowly and or use frequent pauses.
  • Idioms or Personal Phrases: An idiom is a figure of speech that means something different than a literal translation of the words would lead one to believe. Many popular clichés are also idioms. Think “piece of cake,” “wear my heart on my sleeve,” and “live off the fat of the land.” While you don’t want to fill your work with clichés, see if there’s a way to create some fresh idioms for your dialogue. A great way to find fresh idioms is to pay attention to the phrases used by people around you. For example, my brother is a fan of saying, “You’re risking a scab” anytime someone engages in risky behavior or makes a smart-aleck remark.

Novelist John Gregory Dunne recorded interesting phrases he heard on notecards he kept in his wallet.

Another way to increase the authenticity of your work is through the careful use of dialect. Again, quoting Merriam Webster, dialect is “a regional variety of language distinguished by features of vocabulary, grammar, pronunciation from other regional varieties, and constituting together with them a single language.”

In writing, dialect could look like “Y’all, I ain’t got a dog in that fight,” or “Yo, that’s some mad fresh pizza.”

While the occasional use of dialect writing can add flavor to a text, heavy use of dialect can backfire. This is more likely to happen when your character is from a group you don’t belong to or the dialect includes a barrage of phonetically spelled words and unfamiliar slang. At the very least, poorly executed dialect overwhelms readers with its unfamiliarity. At the very worst, it can reinforce negative stereotypes and discriminatory views.

Dialect writing is tricky. There are often nuances in regional speech patterns that even native speakers get wrong. When these faux pas occur, writers lose credibility with their readers.

The key to using diction and dialect effectively is to do your research.

  • Listen to recordings and historically accurate film clips from the time or region you’re writing about.
  • Look for what makes a speech pattern unique and capture that in your work.
  • Use dialect sparingly and avoid overuse of contractions and phonetic spellings. Instead of writing a word like “gotta” on the page, consider writing “have got to.” When reading aloud you can always use the shortened form to enhance the sound of your work.

In her blog post “A Writer’s Guide to Speech Patterns,” writer Mara Mahan has an excellent list of questions every writer should consider when designing a character’s dialect and diction. Her questions cover topics like a character’s rate of speech, use of positive or negative statements, and the importance of considering your context. For example, would your character speak to her best friend in the same way she speaks to her parents?

Fleshing out your dialogue is worth the effort. Effective dialect and diction can make the difference between a publication and work that gets buried in a slush pile. 

Thankfully, my father is recovering from his serious illness. This means I can focus on the gifts this experience has given to me, such as the chance to develop some mindful attention to dialogue. You don’t need a medical emergency to sharpen these skills. The Thanksgiving holiday is a great time to train your ear. As you sit with family members, listen to the words they use. Carry a few notecards in your pocket. When you encounter an interesting phrase, jot it down.

The Death of Sonny

The Death of Sonny

This personal essay was a finalist in the

 Hippocampus Literary Magazine’s Remember In November Contest

   

  “Without smoke, you can’t see the light.”

  My husband Alex said this to me while explaining why professional tours use fog machines in their light shows. The particles reflect the light so we can see the beam’s path. Without the particles, the beauty is lost.

 I already knew about smoke and beauty. As kids, my brothers and I had been firebugs who created blazes in the abandoned brickyard near our house. Some fires were taller than we were. Heat waves shimmered in the smoky boundary between fresh air and flame, creating an ethereal blur we called the place between worlds. Sometimes we jumped through those flames hoping to boundary hop into this magical kingdom of particles and light.

Sitting in the band’s touring van as we waited for our new driver, Mario, I was once again surrounded by smoke. It was March 5, 1997, halfway through the European leg of Biohazard’s Mata Leão tour. Alex’s band was Biohazard’s opener. I’d joined the tour a week ago, half-hoping to find myself. Today was the band’s day off. We’d spent the early afternoon wandering through Innsbruck, a small city high in the Austrian Alps. At 3:30 p.m., we boarded the van and prepared to leave for Prague. Mario was supposed to arrive at four. It was now five-thirty.

 He was late, even by rock-n-roll standards.

 

Four Backstory Traps and How to Escape Them

Four Backstory Traps and How to Escape Them

I remember the exact moment when I decided to become a writer. It was the winter of 1987. I was in sixth-period study hall, gripping Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. The book catapulted me into the world of Louis Creed and Jud Crandall, making the rowdy seventh graders around me disappear. Every day that week, I stayed up well past midnight, unable to put Pet Sematary down.

I spent the next few years in various states of terror as I devoured King’s most famous works including It, The Stand, and The Tommyknockers. Stephen King is a masterful storyteller. His skills with dialogue, plot, character development, and scene-setting are incredible. But even during those early years of fandom, I regularly ran across what felt like a major flaw in his books: the backstory problem. 

Early chapters in King’s novels were absolutely riveting. But just as the story began to truck along, he’d interrupt the forward-moving story with a fifty-plus-page U-turn into the past. I remember little of those forays into backstory other than my fervent desire to skip them.

This summer, I experienced a similar backstory trap as I revised my memoir. Despite everything I tell students and clients, I found myself loading early chapters with backstory about my childhood experiences. The problem had my internal editor on high alert. Every move felt wrong, and yet I continued to scramble around in the past, believing it was all essential. 

As I continued to wrestle with this problem, I researched common backstory traps to see which one I’d fallen into. 

Problem One: The Kitchen Sink

Authors want readers to know who their characters really are. And, because the past often predicts the future, sometimes they share everything leading up to the story present. While some backstory might be essential, most of it is unnecessary.  Even when a scene from the past seems like a perfect fit, it’s important to justify its presence. 

In the Writer’s Digest article “How to Weave Backstory Seamlessly into Your Novel,” agent Jeff Kleinman is quoted as saying “Backstory is the stuff the author figures the reader should know—not stuff the character desperately wants to tell the reader. If it’s critical to the character, it’s critical to the reader, and then it’s not backstory.” Look at what the character wants to say and not what you as the writer want to convey.

Solution: Take time to understand who your characters are and what your story is about. Once you’ve solidified the narrative arc, think about what backstory items directly affect your story. Ask your characters what they desperately need to say for readers to understand them.

Problem Two: The Dump

In early drafts, it’s not uncommon for writers to dump essential backstory into the first few chapters of the book. Writers who use this technique sometimes hope wounds revealed on page seventeen will have a huge payoff on page 210. If you’ve sunk a good hook into the reader, they might employ the skip technique to work their way around your backstory dump. But, if your hook is insufficient or the story doesn’t actually start until page eighty, readers are likely to put your book down. Even when readers stick with your story, they might not remember that page seventeen detail if there’s a lengthy gap between initial mention and payoff.

Solution: Place backstory properly. While some backstory belongs in early chapters, other episodes might work best as flashbacks that amplify a pivotal moment. Instead of planting that wound on page seventeen, consider a flashback at the moment when that wound matters most. This can be particularly powerful if the flashback is essential to the conflict or understanding a character’s motivation during a specific scene.

 

Problem Three: The Stand-In

Sometimes backstory is a stand-in for character development. Interesting tidbits from the past are used to create intrigue but they tell us nothing about a character’s present experience. In her essay “How to Tell if Backstory is Sabotaging Your Novel,” Roz Morris writes about this problem using a character who was raised by theater folk as an example. “The writer hopes [the theater upbringing] will make her interesting. It does, to a point, but it’s only the start. The real value is in what it makes her. Does she crave security and a settled life as a result, or has it left her with itchy feet? Perhaps these twin urges are at odds inside her, sometimes pulling her one way, sometimes the other.”

Solution: Develop characters fully in the forward-moving narrative. Place them in interesting scenes where you can show who they really are. Give them quirky mannerisms and fresh dialogue only they can deliver. Let their reactions to other characters and your story’s conflicts define them.  If a colorful backstory exists, make sure it defines who they currently are.

 

Problem Four: Off-Page Issues 

Sometimes we’re stuck in backstory because it’s safe. We know what happened and how we feel about it.  Early chapters in my memoir introduce important events leading up to my brother’s suicide. Everything else happens after he’s gone. As I approached the chapters leading to that tragic moment, swells of grief washed over me. I realized that while I likely have some on-the-page backstory issues (dumping, anyone?), some of my problems are internal. 

While circling around backstory to avoid painful feelings is a common memoir problem, writers working on thinly-veiled novels are also at risk. This problem can even happen when the plot differs greatly from the writer’s life, but the feeling tone of the conflict rings true to the writer’s experience.  

Solution: Practice self-care and manage expectations about your progress. Allow yourself to take breaks, write at a slower pace, and affirm the power of the process. Give yourself permission to work on something else until the story feels less intense.

Once I realized my biggest backstory trap was off the page, I pushed back a deadline, wrote for shorter periods, and completed more meditations.  As I accepted this part of the writing life, revising became easier. Three weeks ago, my story began sharing its secrets through late-night wakeups and flashes of inspiration. Now that we’re on speaking terms, I can ask my characters what parts of my backstory are absolutely essential.

Meet Our Memoirists: Lisa Cooper Ellison

Meet Our Memoirists: Lisa Cooper Ellison

This post was originally published on the Moving Forwards Memoir Collective Blog 

 It takes a special kind of person to lean into other people’s stories and help them untangle the knotted threads at their centers. It takes a special kind of person to lean into her own story and give it voice with the hope that others in similar circumstances might feel less alone. Author and teacher Lisa Cooper Ellison is, without a doubt, that special kind of person.

Lisa and I first connected over our shared goal of exploring the psychological journeys memoir writers inevitably face when they endeavor to commit words to the page to make meaning of their painful experiences. Since then, I’ve had the privilege of being on the receiving end of Lisa’s generosity of spirit and boundless compassion on more than one occasion and have witnessed firsthand her gentle yet persistent guidance as a writing companion and friend. Her work as a writing coach and editor has enabled her to build a meaningful network comprised of writers at all levels who understand the value of creative support. As a former mental health counselor, Lisa knows the kind of work that’s necessary to peel back the layers of trauma and find healing. As a trauma survivor and memoirist, Lisa has the added credibility of having done that work herself. She’s in the process of completing a memoir called, Lucky Me that confronts the lasting grief of her brother’s mental health crisis and death by suicide. She’s published essays on the same themes in The Guardian, Kenyon Review Online and other publications, she’s written multiple pieces on the craft of writing, and she’s compiled her insights about trauma writing into her forthcoming book, How to Write about What Keeps You up at Night without Staying up All Night.  I recently asked Lisa to tell us more about her writing and her work with other writers, and I invite you to watch our author chat below and read the interview that follows to learn more about this inspiring author.

Heart Speak, The Writing Advice Column #6: When You’re a Writer Who’s Also Being Written About

Heart Speak, The Writing Advice Column #6: When You’re a Writer Who’s Also Being Written About

 

This post was originally published on the Moving Forwards Memoir Collective Blog 

 

 

 

Dear Lisa,

I am writing a memoir about growing up feeling unloved and unwanted by my mother. My oldest son is a writer too. Originally, his MFA thesis was a fictional piece about a group of churches we encountered. Recently, he changed genres and presented his work as a memoir of “his bad childhood.” Three agents want it. 

I know my husband and I did our very best. As I write my book, I am thinking about my own mother and how she will feel.

My son doesn’t want me to read his book, though he intends to verify things with me as he gets his proposal ready. As a writer, I am excited for him and I wish him every success. But now I find myself in the middle and not sure how to process this. I wonder if he’s exaggerating or being influenced in what he remembers. Then I wonder about my own memory and the recollections I have about my own childhood. As a writer who’s also being written about, how do I process this in a healthy way? 

Sincerely,

Never saw this coming…

…..

Dear Never Saw This Coming, 

In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott says, “If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they shouldve behaved better.” How easy it is to be cavalier with this statement when we hold the pen. Yet, when others hold the pen, we shudder. 

You cannot control what your son writes. Nor should you. The process of writing a memoir is the process of voicing our subjective truths. We do this to integrate the experiences that don’t make sense to us. In the process of writing and revising, we discover our wholeness. To apply your version of the truth to his story would stifle his growth. I can see from your letter that you already know this. 

But how do you hold onto your own truth as a writer? And how do you find ways to be okay no matter what he writes? Those are the real questions I need to answer. 

HippoCamp Highlights: Advice on Craft, Platform, and the Writing Life 

HippoCamp Highlights: Advice on Craft, Platform, and the Writing Life 

Every August, I drive to Lancaster, Pennsylvania for one of my favorite writing conferences. Equal parts writer reunion, learning lab, and opportunity to discuss all things creative nonfiction, HippoCamp offers new and established writers a chance to meet and exchange ideas. Attending the three-day conference feels like coming home.

On the drive back to Charlottesville, I thought about what I’d learned at this year’s conference. While I’ll be processing my thoughts for weeks to come, I wanted to share a few golden nuggets with you.

For those of you who don’t write creative nonfiction, I’ve translated my highlights into wisdom for any genre.

The Writing Life

 Writing About Trauma without Retraumatizing Yourself
Lisa Ellison (Hey, that’s me!)
Best Quote (Tweeted by a participant): “If you’re forcing yourself to write about trauma when you’re not ready, you’re retraumatizing yourself.  Emotional wisdom is knowing when the time is right.”

Writing instructors frequently tell us to write about what keeps us up at night. But what if those stories keep you up all night? Or what if those stories make you want to throw up, leave the room, or quit writing altogether? To safely write about trauma, you must P.A.C.E yourself.

P = Prepare for self-care
A = Activate internal wisdom
C = Choose wisely and keep it contained
E = Explore with curiosity and compassion

During my session, I described some of the ways you can P.A.C.E. yourself. In the coming months, I’ll publish a workbook that describes this model and includes exercises designed to help you complete your most difficult projects. Online master classes will be unveiled in early 2020. Stay tuned for updates.

In the meantime, check out my new class: Story Matters: Forgive Your Characters, Empower Yourself

 

Doubt by Any Other Name: Combatting Imposter Syndrome and Finding Your Voice
Athena Dixon
Best Quote: “Determine your kryptonite. If you can identify the issue, you have power over it.”

Imposter Syndrome is a problem that plagues writers of all genres. It’s the source of our “not good enough” feelings. But did you know there are five different types of Imposter Syndromes? You can be a Perfectionist who has to get everything right, an Expert who must know it all, a Natural Genius who would be a total failure if she put in any effort, a Soloist who can never ask for help, or a Superman/Superwoman who has to be the best at everything. Understanding your Imposter type and giving your Imposter Syndrome a name can help you combat it.

Craft

Lightening the Load
Lara Lillibridge, author of Girlish and Mama, Mama, Only Mama
Best Quote: “When you write a story that feels unbearable, there must be moments of breath.”

When it comes to difficult stories, readers need moments of relief. These pauses help the reader recover from emotionally fraught scenes and prepare for new ones. In her presentation, Lara used Lidia Yuknavitch’s The Chronology of Water and Krystal Sital’s Secrets We Kept as exemplar texts. In Chronology, Yuknavitch opens with her daughter’s stillbirth. Her beautiful language plunges you into this terrible moment. Just when you can’t take anymore, she propels you to the surface with sentences like “girl swimmers are hairy.” Each opening line resets the timber of the prose and expectations regarding the emotional intensity of her chapters.

Secrets We Kept is a story of brutal domestic violence that’s passed down through the generations. To allow readers a chance to breathe, Sital created a unique structure where horrific scenes from the past are balanced by conversations in the kitchen between Krystal and her mother or Krystal and her grandmother. Meals serve as a grounding force, reminding you that while this family has suffered, it has also survived.

Keynote Address
Nick Flynn, author of Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, among others
Best Quote: “Every project has its own closed image system that may be contained in a character, object, or landscape.  We find the system through the writing process.”

Sometimes we don’t know what we have until we’ve written it. As you begin to examine your work, look for patterns in your prose. Perhaps you always write about the same things or include the same images. An examination of these patterns can deepen your narrative arc. To find the pattern, create a collage of the images and topics that appear in your scenes. Notice the trends then ask yourself what the story is trying to tell you.

The Workshop

Don’t Call Me Brave: Three Memoirists on Writing and Publishing Hard Truths Before, During, and After the #MeToo Movement

Krystal Sital (moderator), Lynn Hall (panelist, author of Caged Eyes), and Amy Jo Burns (panelist, author of Cinderland)
Best Quotes:
Krystal: “Understanding the importance of what you’re writing and what you can lose are critical considerations when publishing your work. And remember that publication is completely worth it.”
Lynn: “I look forward to a world where survivors can tell their stories without someone calling them ‘brave.’ Brave perpetuates the divide between those who share publicly and those who don’t.”
Amy Jo: “You are not your trauma. You are not your book.”

When someone brings a difficult story to a writing workshop, they’re not looking for pity or props. They want you to assess their writing based on what’s on the page not the contents of their heart. While I could talk at length about how to do this, I want to stick with the points these speakers made. Sometimes calling a person brave is a way to communicate sympathy and pity. The term can also be used to elevate those who publicly share difficult stories above those who don’t. Be mindful of what you say to your fellow writers about their work. When you’re thinking of calling someone brave, ask yourself if this is a way to compensate for your own discomfort. If it is, see what you can do to soothe yourself. If your desire to see someone as brave comes from a place of admiration, honor their bravery by honestly and fairly critiquing their work.

Building Platform

Building Your Platform with Instagram
Allison K. Williams
Best quote: “You do not work for social media. Social media works for you.”

Someone at HippoCamp said this session was like willingly drinking from a firehose. There was so much good water, and unlike most firehoses, the water was good. My biggest takeaway from Building Your Platform with Instagram was around engagement. When it comes to platform building, many of us obsess about follower numbers, but real engagement is more important. Likes and comments demonstrate that readers are interested in what you have to say. Instead of growing your numbers, find ways to authentically engage with your current audience. Ask them questions. Promote other people. Tell a story other people will care about. 

Heart Speak, The Writing Advice Column #6: When You’re a Writer Who’s Also Being Written About

Heart Speak, The Writing Advice Column #5: Writing in the Face of Fragile Family Relationships

This post was originally published on the Moving Forwards Memoir Collective Blog 

 

Dear Lisa,

My memoir is about growing up in a family where the default position in any dispute was to totally cut that relative from our lives. It resulted in me growing up in a bubble with no extended family. As a child this seemed quite normal, but as I grew up, I began to realise how dysfunctional and destructive this behaviour was. 

After the death of my parents, I took a leap of faith and reconnected with a number of relatives I had never met. This shed light on an otherwise dark past and brought much happiness to my life.

It has also led to a conflict. I believe my experiences are not unique and hope telling my story will help others feel less alone. I want to write the truth, but I don’t want to hurt my fragile extended family. How do I write my memoir without hurting the people I love?

Sincerely,

Fragile Family

 …..

Dear Fragile Family,

Your letter contains two questions: Should I write this memoir, and should I publish it? 

The answer to your first question is a resounding yes. As Joan Didion says, we write to understand ourselves. If this family pattern is still bothering you, it’s worth understanding. The writing process might shed additional light on your family situation and increase your compassion for them. Over time, the story you’ve always told might evolve. There’s only one way to find out: write it down. 

Seven Steps for Managing Feedback on Your Work in Progress

Seven Steps for Managing Feedback on Your Work in Progress

Summer is a great time to receive feedback on your manuscripts. At least what I tell myself and my students. Between June 4 – June 11, 2019, I attended The Writer’s Hotel Conference in New York, a weeklong intensive that included daily workshops, public readings, and agent pitch sessions. This year, I worked with Meghan Daum and an incredible cohort of writers. Together, we examined our narrative arcs, scenes, and the placement of reflections while simultaneously wrestling with the age-old memoir question: Should I show more (scene), or tell more (narration)? Or, to reference Philip Lopate’s craft book To Show and to Tell, how can I effectively do both?  

 While I pounded the lawless streets of Midtown Manhattan, my Memoir in a Year students finished the first drafts of their books (insert whoops of joy) and traded manuscripts with their beta readers. Throughout the summer my students and I will wade through the marked manuscript pages readers have given to us.

Receiving feedback can feel exhilarating. But once we prepare for revision, most writers wrestle with the same question: where do I begin?

After years of attending writing workshops, I have created this system for managing the unwieldy stacks of workshop manuscripts alongside the internal struggles feedback sometimes elicits. I’d like to share it with you.

 

Step One: Check Your Ego at the Door

Let’s be honest. Part of us secretly hopes to find that one reader who will tell us we’re brilliant and our manuscripts are absolutely perfect. Yet, the reason we submit our writing to readers, workshops, or editors is that another part of us knows more work needs to be done. The tension between what the ego wants (undying admiration) and what the artist inside you knows, can lead to irritations. There’s only one remedy for this situation. Send your ego packing so you can objectively examine what you’ve been told.

 

Step Two: Read Through Everything

Read through all feedback in one sitting, preferably on a day when you’re well rested and unstressed. This will help you maintain your objectivity as you wade through the morass of comments in front of you. When you’re done, journal about the experience. Are there points of consensus, split decisions, or suggestions that sound like a complete overhaul of your work? What rings true? Does anything ruffle your feathers? Are there items that don’t make sense or points of misunderstanding? If there are, can you ask for clarification?

 

Step Three: Transcribe Feedback into One Document

Soon after your initial review, print a clean copy of your manuscript. Transcribe all feedback that rings true onto the clean copy. Include all questions, comments, and line edits. On a separate sheet of paper, or in an MS Word document, list everything else. Be sure to record points of consensus and those dreaded split decisions that require you to trust your gut. Make a separate list of items you need to ponder, including items that seem unhelpful or unwelcome.  When appropriate, ask for clarification on those last few items. It’s possible that the reader has a great point that was poorly communicated.

 

Step Four: After a Waiting Period, Review Your Notes

All feedback should be seen as a gift. Readers took valuable time from their lives to read and understand your work. And yet, there are times when even the most well-meaning reader doesn’t get your project. This is especially true when readers are given snippets from a larger work.

One week after your initial reading, open your MS Word document and articulate your project’s purpose, trajectory, and goals. Then reread your notes. If a piece of feedback takes you on a major tangent that doesn’t ring true, ignore it. At least for now.

 

Step Five: Don’t Let Your Ego Drive the Bus

Don’t let the above suggestion serve as an excuse to dismiss something important. I know. Some feedback feels like a cheese grater against our skin. I’m not talking about unhelpful comments like “I hate your character,” “Your book is too sad,” or “Your story is pointless.” I mean well-intended feedback we just don’t want to hear. Things like, “I think there’s a deeper level to this story than you’ve explored,” “My attention is wandering here,” “I’m confused about what’s happening in this section,” or “I’m not connecting to your main character.” These comments are likely to create the most ire when we’re sick of a project or we believe we’ve finished a project.

I frequently find the feedback I least want to hear is what my manuscript actually needs. There are a few reasons why I resist. The suggestions may be difficult to implement. Maybe I’m tired of working on the project. Or perhaps reader is asking me to be more vulnerable than I had intended, or he wants me to wade through painful territory.  

You do not need to implement every bit of feedback you receive. Doing so could turn your pretty good manuscript into a chaotic mess. But dare yourself to work harder, write more, and open your heart a little further as you refine your work.

Step Six: Create a Revision Plan

Once you’ve processed your feedback, recycle all hard copies except the clean copy and your notes. Create a hierarchy of items to address starting with big-picture issues, like structure, then work your way down to smaller ones, like line editing your work.

 

Here’s the hierarchy I suggest to clients:

  • Point of view
  • Time Part One (global rules around time and tense)
  • Narrative Arc
  • Structure
  • Endings
  • Beginnings
  • Character Development
  • Pacing
  • Time Part Two (flashbacks, flashforwards, and time markers)
  • Dialogue
  • Prologues and Epilogues (if relevant)
  • Line Editing/Copy Editing/Mechanics

Step Seven: Rest then Revise

Our tendency is to rush into the revision process, but that can be a huge mistake. Instead, wait a few weeks before you begin. During this incubation period your unconscious mind will synthesize the feedback you’ve been given and create more effective solutions than you can consciously imagine. Plus, when you return to your manuscript, you’ll be refreshed and ready to go. In the meantime, maintain your writing chops by working on something else. 

 

The Two Conversations Every Beta Reader Must Have Before Saying Yes to a Manuscript

On Sunday, June 2, 2019, my Memoir in a Year students reached a major milestone: they completed the first drafts of their memoirs. Our final spring class on Thursday, May 30. 2019, included a one-hour writing marathon. Bent over notepads and laptops, tongues pressed to the sides of their mouths, these tenacious writers filled the room with a river-dance-like flurry of fingers typing on plastic keys. Two students, who had already completed their drafts, beamed as they spoke of the exhilarating moment when they held copies of their finished manuscripts.

 

 Over the summer, these students will let their manuscripts rest while they serve as beta readers for each other. We’ve spent the past month preparing for this phase of the writing process.

 

 When deciding to become a beta reader, there are two conversations you must have before taking on a manuscript. The first conversation is with yourself. While you don’t have to be a writer to serve as a beta reader, you must know what skills you bring to the table. Make a list of the genres you like to read and why you enjoy them. Make a second list of books and genres you don’t like. Steer clear of anything on the second list or be prepared to make yourself miserable.

  

Next, ask yourself what you know about the genres you love. Can you identify the two voices in memoir and tell when they’re working well together? Love horror, romance, sci-fi, or fantasy? What do you know about reader expectations in these genres? Knowledge of genre expectations can help you decide whether a manuscript is mislabeled or needs further revision.  

  

Once you’ve considered your interests, think about your strengths as a communicator. Are you good at giving praise? Do you know how to clearly and respectfully broach a problem? What do you say when your attention flags? Not sure what to do? Allegra Huston’s article The Two Basic Rules of Editing has some great suggestions.

Finally, examine what you know about storytelling. Do you know what belongs in a setup? Can you identify plot points? Are you a whiz at writing dialogue? What about structure? Are you willing to learn about these things in order to communicate more effectively with a writer? Mastery of these skills is not mandatory for beta readers; however, some writers are looking for beta readers with a writer’s eye. If that’s not you, simply pass on the project.

  

In my class, my beta reader pairs are required to do the following:

  •  Highlight the strengths in the manuscript and ask questions when they reach points of confusion
  • Mark the moments when the manuscript comes to life and points where their attention fades
  • Flag items that might be tangential or in the wrong place
  • Write a brief letter that includes a synopsis, a summary of the manuscript’s global strengths and areas of greatest concern, and responses to questions posed by the writer

 

 This is a more sophisticated form of beta reading than many writers require; however, I urge you to try some of these exercises. Writing a synopsis for someone else’s manuscript will make it easier to write one for your own. Summarizing a manuscript’s strengths and areas for revision will help you think globally about the writing process. And, who can’t get more practice with praise and asking questions?

  

 Once you’ve finished your internal conversation, it’s time to interview the writer. The initial conversation should be brief and cover a few key points: 

  • What is the writer’s timeline?
  •   What are the writer’s goals for this review?
  • Is the writer looking for a reader’s perspective or a writer’s perspective?
  • What kind of feedback would be most helpful (a conversation, an editorial letter, in-text comments, a summary of your thoughts)?
  • In the past, what feedback has not been helpful? (Some writers find editing marks made with a red pen to be punitive. Other writers hate receiving line edits during early drafts.)
  • Ask the writer to briefly describe their project. There are really only three things you need to know: the genre, the length (more than 95,000 words suggests the book might need major editing, and a comparable published manuscript.

   

After this initial conversation, decide if you’re a good match for this project. While there are many benefits to literary citizenship, it’s better to say no if the writer’s expectations or timeline don’t align with your skills or schedule. Also, if the comparable for this project is a book you hate, it’s likely this manuscript isn’t for you.

  

If the initial conversation goes well, prepare for the handoff. Set expectations regarding your preferred format and method of delivery. It’s okay to ask for a hard copy of the manuscript if that provides you with the best reading experience. If the writer wants in-text comments, MS Word is your best bet. Tell the writer to attach any specific questions or concerns about the manuscript to the last page of the book so your experience of the writing isn’t influenced by the writer’s concerns.

 

 Read the manuscript as quickly as possible. A concentrated review of the manuscript will help you understand the story’s narrative arc and your experience of it. Once you’ve finished reading, write up your notes and schedule a follow-up meeting to share your results. If you’re exchanging manuscripts, consider bringing a small thank you gift or treat for your reader as a token of appreciation.

 

Serving as a beta reader is a gift and a commitment to a writer’s work. It shouldn’t be taken lightly, but don’t confuse it with complete altruism. It’s likely your beta reader duties will teach you more about the craft of writing and your own work than any review of our own manuscript. Have any doubts? Check out this essay by Jeremiah Chamberlin.

Next month, I’ll share some tips regarding follow-up meetings and how to address feedback provided by a beta reader. 

Heart Speak, The Writing Advice Column # 4: Escaping the Forest of Endless Revision

This post was originally published on the Moving Forwards Memoir Collective Blog 

 

Dear Lisa,

I’ve been told it takes an average of ten years to write a memoir. If this is true, I’m right on track—maybe. Let me explain.

Ten years ago, with my new husband’s encouragement, I read his deceased daughter’s journals. Reading about this dead girl I’d never met, a young woman who died by suicide at age twenty-four, unveiled secrets and hard lessons from my past—secrets about faith, trust and honesty I didn’t want to confront. And so, a book idea was born.

Like Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, my story has interconnecting plots linked by a central theme. Weaving the character threads into one story has taken discipline and drive, qualities that are not obstacles for me until I’m mining the next layer of honesty in myself. Then I get lost in the forest of “Revision Times Infinity,” a place where fairies with magical potions like Puck cause me to imagine my name on the cover of a book. The book whose revision I have yet to finish.

I’m currently in the forest of “Revision Times Infinity.” Can you show me the way out?

 

Signed,

Lost in a Midwinter Night’s Dream

  

Dear Lost in a Midwinter Night’s Dream, 

Revision times infinity. Don’t many of us know it. There is no easy way to write a book and no exact timetable to follow, though memoirs generally take longer than fiction. Memoir poses unique challenges. Unlike fiction, where writers build truths around the worlds they’ve created, memoirists mine their experiences to excavate truths that are sometimes deeply buried. Wandering in the dark and bumping against the walls can lead to disorientation. No wonder you feel lost.

The first step in re-orienting yourself is determining what kind of book you’re writing. Some books work on us while others work through us. Writers of the latter form frequently describe their books as having been channeled. These rare projects require just as much effort, but the way forward is clear. Most memoirs are meant to change us. We’re inspired to write them because our experiences aren’t integrated. We spend years patiently picking them apart, trying to understand their meaning. As Andre Dubus III says in Melanie Brooks’s Writing Hard Stories, “Just because we know what happened, doesn’t mean we know what the hellhappened.” Melanie adds, “It’s the figuring out the meaning within the chronology and understanding its impact that makes the writing part challenging.” In other words, until we know what the hell happened, the narrative arc eludes us.

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